


Heartbeat

by DasMervin, MrsHyde (DasMervin)



Series: The Writing on the Wall [14]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Angst, Bad Sex, Bitchy Castiel, Bitchy Dean, Brooding, Canon-Typical Violence, Cas has Issues, Cas is an idiot, Coitus Interruptus, Confused Castiel, Confused Dean, Dean Has Issues, Dean didn't do it right, Dean's an idiot, Disappointment, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Constipation, Explicit Language, Extreme Doormat, Fade to Black, First Time, Gender Issues, Headcanon, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Human Castiel, If it's you it's okay, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Making Out, Painful Sex, Pushy Castiel, Sexual Confusion, Sexual Fantasy, Sexuality Issues, Slash, Uncomfortable Cuddling, Uncomfortable Dean, but Cas thinks he didn't do it right, but he's so not a virgin Dean, safe sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-29
Updated: 2013-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-30 21:44:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1023745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasMervin/pseuds/DasMervin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasMervin/pseuds/MrsHyde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six months after the explosion in “Holy Water,” Cas raises one of their unresolved issues.  Needless to say, Dean doesn’t take it well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lose Myself in Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite Dean having put their fight out of his mind, Cas has not, and he thinks they still have something to work out. Dean’s not happy about it, but he reluctantly makes a concession for Cas.

_March 2021_

How the hell had such a successful trip gone completely balls-up so fast?

Well, that one was easy—because of that shit-for-brains angel back in the motel, that’s how. That’s _always_ how it happened.

Dean glared down at the bottle in his hands, smearing around the wet ring it left on the bar. Bars all looked the same; there was a kind of comfort in that, he supposed. Yeah, he never stuck around one long enough to learn all the little things that made one unique, never got one to be a place where everybody knows your name, but it didn’t matter, ‘cause every one he went to still felt familiar anyway.

Same with motel rooms, really. They weren’t a _home_ home (because there _was_ no home for him), but he was about as comfortable in some anonymous old dive off the highway as he was anywhere else. Except now, of course—he was in this bar for that very reason. He just had to get _out_ of the motel room and away from _Cas_. He needed to be _by himself_. He couldn’t be around Cas right now, because Cas wanted—

Shit.

* * *

It had been a good couple of months; not too busy, not too dull. Well, it was pretty dull for Cas; he’d been on lockdown at Bobby’s for the past four months ever since he and Dean had nearly run into a demon on their last hunt. He’d been layin’ low since then, but no black-eyed bastards had shown up lookin’ for him, so that crisis seemed to be averted, at least. Although Bobby did say that he had spent the whole time being quiet and a little pitiful—he clearly didn’t like it, and was still kinda broody over the whole situation. 

As for Sam and Dean, things had been pretty good. All the jobs had been good ones, nothing out of the ordinary and nothing that really gave them too much trouble. Only two of the leads they’d actually followed up on hadn’t panned out, and nobody had died on their watch. They’d been trawling around up in the north of Wyoming—talk about a Godforsaken patch of dirt—and hadn’t picked up any new signs when Sam tossed out that maybe they could drop by Bobby’s and see if he had a hint of a new gig they might follow.

Dean thought Sam was getting soft—he seemed to fall back on hitting Bobby’s place more often these days. Maybe he was trying to stick it to the curse where he could—kid never could stand being told what he could or couldn’t do. Or it might just be because he was a worrywart. Bobby was past seventy, after all. Dean knew he’d be fine—he’d just keep kickin’ until he was done, then he’d go out with a bang, a shotgun in one hand and a bottle of Jack in the other. But Mommy-Sammy always seemed to want to go back to his place and look after him or something, which was dumb. It wasn’t like he was alone in the house. If he decided to pull the “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” routine, Cas would bail him out.

But the more Dean thought about it, hitting the old homestead didn’t sound too bad. Maybe get Cas to lighten up or something. As such, they’d sort of trawled their way east, meandering in the general direction of Sioux Falls but not by any straight route, like they were trying to fool the Marks on their backs into not knowing they were headed home. They took their time, looping up through Montana and North Dakota and down into Minnesota, looking for possible new jobs on their way, but they didn’t find anything and after only a few more days on the road had rolled into Bobby’s driveway.

They didn’t have time to get comfortable. When they arrived they found Bobby and Cas ears-deep in work, checking dates and going through old records, sorting newspaper clippings and putting together timelines. Turned out Bobby was hot on the trail of a haunting that he’d run into twice before and both times it had apparently gotten away. He’d been pretty sure it was tied to an old antique desk. The original owner had been _uncomfortably_ close to his daughter, like _Natural Born Killers_ kind of close, and said daughter had disappeared under very suspicious circumstances after being discovered to be in the family way—which was probably literal in her case. Bobby had poked around back when he’d first caught the case in Maine and managed to find her remains in an old dried up well hidden on the back of their property. He’d salted and burned her and thought that had been the end, but the same MO had shown up some years later in New Hampshire, and what do you know, Bobby had discovered that the old desk was there, too. That second time he’d searched the furniture, and curled up in a back drawer he’d found a watch fob made of human hair. He’d guessed it was hers, so he’d torched it. That seemed to have taken care of it for the second time. But now the same sort of nasty slashing was starting up again in Pennsylvania, all the victims men with expecting wives, and he was determined to nail it for good now.

Only thing was, in researching everything about the family and their possessions, they’d stumbled across another series of murders in Maine that sounded like a werewolf.

Well, things seemed to fall right into place. Dean was a crack shot and always up for a werewolf hunt. They could be in Maine in two days, which gave them three days to track it down before the week of the full moon. Bobby could go hunt his white whale in Pennsylvania and it’d all be good.

Bobby, who was past seventy, going up against a vengeful spirit that stabbed and hacked people to bits with some kind of blunted blade.

Sam had caught his eye over his trucker-capped head, and this time Dean agreed with his worrying. They’d pinned it on Cas, of course. Bobby had made it clear that Cas was chomping at the bit to get out on a hunt, hinting all the way back last month that they should pick him up if they were close, just to get him out of the house to snap him out of it. Dean personally thought Cas’s cabin fever was stupid, given that he’d spent a year or two locked in the attic right after unplugged from Purgatory and had been fine. Guess he was getting spoiled with Dean and Sam taking him out for a walk now and again. Well, that still didn’t change the fact that they ought to be careful, just in case Crowley was planting his demon-flunkies near possible cases trying to lure him out. So Dean and Sam had used that as their angle: yeah, Cas was good with ghosts and all, but if he needed to make a quick getaway before Bobby put this one down after she’d already given him the slip twice before—well, it’d probably be better if Cas went on the other hunt. Bobby could probably use a little more experienced help who was better with the legwork anyway, so why didn’t Cas go with Dean and Sam would team up with Bobby this time around?

Dean had almost put a stop to it right then, though, because Bobby had given him a _look_ , like this was all _Dean’s_ idea, and then he’d looked at _Cas_ , and oh, _shit_ no, he did _not_ just go there. The only thing that kept him from just telling him exactly why they were splitting up and that he could go to hell was the fact that if Bobby knew that he and Sam were babysitting him like that behind his back, he’d break a foot off in both their asses.

So Dean just bit the inside of his cheek and let him think—whatever it was he was thinking. Which was crap—he was _not_ trying to get Cas off by himself, goddammit. He was looking out for Bobby’s mushy old butt, the ungrateful bastard.

Just ‘cause they might make use of any free time they got was not the point—that didn’t mean he was _planning_ it. He _never_ — _planned_ it. If he was taking Cas out, it was just to getting him to quit sulking like Bobby wanted in the first place—he was _not_ trying to get some action. If action _happened_ , then fine, but that wasn’t what he was doing!

Screw that lousy old fart, anyway. He hoped Sam ate beans the whole trip; then he’d be sorry.

Sam and Dean had both crashed downstairs that night and the next morning they packed up and were off. They’d caravanned east, stopping off for the night outside of Cleveland; Bobby and Cas were both old ladies didn’t like driving all night. They were back on the road the next day and split up around McKean, Pennsylvania, with Sam and Bobby hanging south and Dean and Cas continuing east.

Dean hated New England roads. They were all…New England-y. No straight lines anywhere. To hell this backwoods goat track crap; give him an unbroken stretch of highway any day. The narrow, twisty roads and closely-packed, leafless trees made the trip feel longer than it was. To make it all worse, Cas was terrible for car conversation; he spent most of the morning watching Lake Erie going by, and the afternoon looking at the Atlantic out his window until they got too far up in the Maine woods to see it anymore. Dean supposed it could have been worse—at least Cas didn’t get carsick when he sat up front.

They arrived in Orono in time for a late dinner. It had the typical college-town feel to it—aside from the fact that apparently a werewolf had taken up residence. An American werewolf on campus—how original. Seemed like a fair number of monsters really did go for that cheap horror schlock. Well, just so long as there were hot coeds involved, Dean thought he could handle it. Well, and so long as there were no demons in town. They’d spent the rest of the evening scoping out the area, looking for anything suspicious of the Hell-variety; Cas hadn’t sensed anything and Dean hadn’t seen anyone that raised the hairs on the back of his neck, so they’d judged things to be safe for now.

They’d taken a motel room on the edge of town (and made sure to put a devil’s trap by the door and salt the windows) and got up bright and early the next morning to start in on the case. Cas had come prepared; his anal-retentive neatness had combined perfectly with Bobby’s slave-driver style of research, so he had every possible relevant fact or clue with him (along with plenty that _weren’t_ relevant), neatly filed and organized. At that point it was just a matter of following things up—the victims, the time of death, verifying the missing hearts, and looking for possible connections between them all so they could pinpoint old Lon Chaney, Jr.

They’d pulled out the fake badges and waded right in. It had given Dean a bit of a jolt to see Cas in a suit and tie, and it didn’t help that it was still chilly up here, so Cas the Lizard had put on an overcoat with it…Jesus, talk about the Twilight Zone. He’d gotten so used to seeing him in jeans and shirts like a normal person that suddenly having him in something so close to his old angel get-up was… _freaky._ And uncomfortable. It was made even worse because it just wasn’t quite right: the tie was green and patterned. The coat was a different style and he belted it. Even more jarring, Dean could suddenly see that even _Cas_ wasn’t quite the same. The lines around his eyes and on his forehead had deepened over the years—he just… _changed_ now, and Dean could suddenly see it. But he didn’t like thinking about that because then he’d start looking in the mirror at his own face, so he shook off the déjà vu and told Cas to get in the car.

Cas had gotten much, _much_ better at pretending to be a cop. Not that that was saying much; he mostly just kept quiet and listened and let Dean do the talking, occasionally asking a question that was, amazingly enough, not painfully obvious or glaringly about something supernatural. By then, Dean had felt safe enough leaving him on his own at the morgue to look through the victims’ reports by himself (armed with Ruby’s knife) while Dean followed the best lead they had—three of the victims had all been from the same fraternity. Rather sourly, Dean had acknowledged that at forty-two, there was no way he was going to be able to pose as a visiting fraternity brother this time. Instead, he went in as a cop, claiming he was an older member who wanted to see the place for nostalgia’s sake.

He ended up spending what was probably too long in there, shooting the breeze and having a few beers with the Epsilons—man, but they looked young. He hadn’t ever been that baby-faced, surely. However, his good time was ruined when Cas had called him wanting to be picked up.

He’d been half-amused and half-pissed to find the dork standing on the corner of the street downtown talking to a bunch of girls who could only be students—and they were flirting with him. He was amused because Cas clearly had no idea what they were on about, but he was pissed because they were flirting with _Cas_ and not _him_. Talk about a waste. Dean had broken up the party with his a flash of his badge and his most charming smile, getting the attention where it belonged, before Cas had rained on that parade too by telling him that he had a lead.

“One of those girls knew Aaron Jameson,” he said once they were in the car, shuffling through his folder of notes to find a copy of the coroner’s report. “When I asked about him, she said that she had seen him at a social gathering the night before he died.”

“I bet she had,” Dean snorted. “Followed by The Walk of Shame the next morning.” He waved away Cas’s bewildered look and told him to keep going.

“She mentioned that he was harassing another student; I believe Jameson had been making the allegation that the other student was homosexual,” Cas told him.

Dean stared firmly out the windshield and waiting for him to go on. He didn’t disappoint, saying, “She said that she thought he was an art student—and according to the report, Jameson’s body had charcoal dust on his clothes.”

When he didn’t continue, Dean said, “So what? Maybe he was barbecuing that night. Easy for the werewolf, could kill the guy and grill his heart right there.”

Cas frowned. “I don’t think a werewolf would cook anything.”

Dean rolled his eyes—Cas would never learn.

He did, however, have a point, as one of the other bodies had odd gray smears on his skin that the coroner had identified as artist’s modeling clay. A little more asking around, and they’d come up with Felix Haskell, a junior art major who lived in a very new-agey decorated bungalow with his hippie girlfriend on the edge of town. He was obviously not gay, but he was stuck up and self-important and seemed to think that most of the people who’d been killed had in fact deserved what they got, mostly because they’d all humiliated him at one point or another.

With the full moon only three nights away, he and Cas had armed themselves with silver bullets and staked out his house. It should have been a straightforward hunt, and really, it almost was. Sure enough, when the moon was high, Haskell wolfed out, and they’d gone in to dispatch him. Dean had made short work of him, and that would have been it—had he not been attacked by Haskell’s shrieking, snarling, and apparently also-a-werewolf hippie girlfriend.

It was a stupid mistake, letting his guard down, and Dad would have kicked his ass for it, but as he fell to the ground, his gun skittering across the floor and his vision full of teeth, he figured this bitch was about to do it for him—

—except with the crack of a gunshot and a shriek of pain, she fell to the side, gibbering and foaming as she clutched at her blasted shoulder, and there was Cas, in formal firing-range stance just like Bobby had taught him, and Dean kicked the wolf-girl’s drumming legs off of him and flung himself towards his gun, grabbing it just as she leapt to her feet and charged Cas—

And with two more shots, she went down. One from the front and one from the back, both right in the heart.

It was totally Dean’s shot that killed her first.

Well—two dead bodies. Very messy. They’d needed to skip town, and fast, so after messing the place up and staging a robbery (by, well, robbing them, just a little—it wasn’t like they’d need it), they’d both run out to the car and got the hell out of dodge.

It was about four hours to Massachusetts; Dean wanted to get out of the state and into a major metro area so they could blend in before he let his guard down. They’d slept that afternoon in preparation for the hunt, so between that and being ramped up on adrenaline, they’d made the trip easy, and no fussing from Cas about wanting to sleep.

Sam called near the end of the trip; seemed he and Bobby had found what they were looking for: the personalized stationery set from the old desk that had originally belonged to that sick bastard from Maine had included a bone-handled letter opener.

Yeah—real Father of the Year material, there. At least this time Sam and Bobby had actually seen the daughter’s ghost—slashed up just like her victims when they summoned her—once they’d verified what was keeping her here, they’d watched her go up in smoke when they torched that last bone.

They’d taken care of her about the same time Dean and Cas had been duking it out with Pongo and Perdita. They, however, had also turned in afterwards for a decent night’s sleep and had just gotten up to start heading home. Dean told him that they’d follow along—they needed their beauty rest and would be a day or so behind them, so they shouldn’t wait up.

They hit the north side of Boston a little after six that morning, and Dean felt that they were safe enough to stop—just because they had protection against their enemies didn’t mean they had protection from being recognized as possible murder suspects by eye witnesses. They’d grabbed a bite at a 24-hour diner—Cas had breakfast, but Dean wanted a burger, with their schedule it was like dinnertime anyway—before finding a motel to camp out in and get some sleep for the trip back and watch the news and see if they’d been spotted.

No news was good news, though, and after checking online and watching the seven AM news report and seeing nothing, he figured they were home free. It was time to turn in and get some sleep after a rough night so they could get back to South Dakota.

‘Cept Dean was still a little wired. He always was after a fight, and even more so after a successful hunt like this one, ganking two werewolves at once. And okay, fine, he could give Cas credit—he was never the greatest shot (that was Dean), so he hadn’t gone for the heart first since Dee Wallace had been all right up in Dean’s face like that, but his shot had gotten her off Dean just fine. He’d definitely hit her right where it counted with the second shot, too. That had been some damn fine work.

Cas was just sitting there on the edge of the bed; he’d kicked off his shoes and socks, and even though the real news was pretty much over, he was still very seriously watching the section on gardening tips. _Really_ , Cas? What, was he gonna plant a little patch of posies in Bobby’s backyard?

Dean didn’t want to listen to that shit, so he slid over on the end of the bed next to him and grabbed the remote. Cas looked up, met his eyes, and Dean mashed the off button and just let the remote fall from his fingers, his other hand sliding around Cas’s waist and tugging him close. Cas turned to face him, and his hands were on Dean’s shoulders and he was tilting his head just right. Yeah, that’s what he was talking about—better than the last time they’d been on a hunt, that was for damn sure. Better than what they’d had in the past _six months_ , was what it was.

Cas tasted faintly of the orange juice he’d had at breakfast, but he always just tasted like _Cas_ , and that was what Dean wanted. He pulled him roughly forward, reaching around to bunch Cas’s shirt up so he could find warm skin above the waistband of his jeans. Cas hands were in his hair, his mouth hot and eager, and Dean flopped backwards, wiggling around until he was up fully on the bed, dragging Cas with him. There were seriously too many fucking clothes in the way right now, and he had every intention of fixing that STAT.

He heard Cas murmur, “Dean,” and _yes_ , that always got his motor running. He pulled Cas’s shirt all the way out of his jeans—but he wasn’t helping him like he usually did. What the hell? Was he playing _coy_? He _knew_ that drove Dean nuts—well, fine, if that’s how he wanted it, Dean was gonna give it to him, but he was seriously asking for it now. He pushed Cas on his back and curled his fingers under his hem, only Cas broke away from his mouth again to say, “Dean,” a little more urgently this time.

“Yeah?” he panted in his ear as he nibbled on his neck, trying to figure out just how he could get Cas’s shirt over his head without having to stop what he was doing.

“Do you—do you want to have sex with me?”

Dean froze, and then pulled away to look incredulously at Cas. What did he think they were doing now, playing Parcheesi?! What the hell was he even _talking_ about—

“…Real sex?”

_…Son of a bitch…_

Dean just stared at him, his mouth hanging open for a moment, and then he jerked away, rolling off him and sitting up, leaning over the side of the bed. The silence was awful, but it was better than talking, so of course Cas had to say, “Dean?” all tentative and pitiful.

What the fuck. He thought they’d dealt with—with _that_ six months ago, when they’d had all this out! He thought Cas had forgotten about it (or maybe just wished he had), or at least that Dean had managed to get it though his thick skull that he didn’t _do_ that shit!

“Cas,” Dean ground out after a moment, his hands gripping his knees and his eyes firmly on the floor, “why in the blue hell would you ask me that? I told you I didn’t want that—I told you not to mention it again! What— _why the hell did you ask me that?!_ ” Oh, if _this_ was had been eating Cas for the past six months, Dean was gonna throttle him. Moping about demons was one thing, but _this_ …

He couldn’t help it; he looked furiously around to glare at Cas when he didn’t answer right away, but that was a mistake, ‘cause Cas was still lying there, his cheeks flushed and his lips swollen and his shirt rucked up around his middle to reveal his pale belly, and dammit, he was licking his lip and looking away now. “I…I know you miss sex, and I just thought…you might want it,” he said haltingly.

Dean jerked his head away again. “Cas, I miss sex with _women_ —and I don’t have sex with _men_!” he growled.

“I don’t understand.”

Jesus Christ…had no one ever explained the birds and the bees to this idiot?! “ _Pussy_ , Cas—when I say I miss sex, I mean _pussy_ , all right?” he snapped, rising to his feet to start pacing. “You don’t have one, you never will, and nothing you do will be like it, okay?” He spun around and glared at him. “Now, I told you I didn’t _need_ that from you, and I didn’t _want_ that from you, so why the hell did you just up and decide to bring it up again?”

Cas had finally sat up during his rant, his shirt thankfully falling back down, only now he’d wrapped his arms around his middle and was looking forlorn. “I—just know that you like sex…and I know you didn’t mean with men,” he said quietly, “but…you said that I was an exception, and I thought that maybe…you would make that exception for me, too.”

Dean stared at him in disbelief. Oh, well, looky here, someone had been taking a correspondence course from the Sam Winchester School of Passive Aggression! Gripping the back of his neck, he went back to angrily pacing. Right, _Dean_ was the bad guy here because he wouldn’t play hide the carrot with Cas, what _had_ he been thinking?

“I won’t mention it again, Dean.”

“ _Good_ ,” he said, stopping to give Cas a hard look— _crap_ , Cas was looking back at him with those big dewy sheep’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, Dean. I wish I—”

 _Oh, no, you don’t._ Dean cut him off. “Cas, so help me, if you try to apologize again for not being a woman, I _will_ kick your ass,” he warned.

Cas just shook his head. “No—not for that,” he said. “But…I am sorry that you’ve had to give up so much for me…and I just wish I had some way to…give it back to you.”

 _God_ dammit _, Cas…_

Dean just stared at him for a moment, before spinning on his heel and snatching up his coat and his keys, muttering all kinds of dire threats under his breath. “Go to bed, Cas,” he grunted. “Just—go to bed.”

He got the door open before Cas anxiously asked, “Where are you going?”

“ _Out_ ,” Dean barked. “I’ll be back later.”

And he slammed the door behind him.

* * *

Stupid angel. Every time Dean got comfortable in their weird little arrangement, he had to go and fuck things up again.

He drained the last of his beer and glowered at the bottles lining the shelf behind the bar. His back hurt, because he’d slept in the car. He had a nice soft bed waiting for him at the motel, but there was no way he’d have been able to sleep in there with Cas boring holes in his back, that goddamn pathetic look on his face the whole time. He couldn’t do _anything_ in there with Cas giving him a “why won’t you fuck me?” look, so he’d just left. Cas would be fine; he had Ruby’s knife and they’d decked out the room with the usual anti-demon traps and hex bags like they had the last one. Dean had gotten in the car and cruised around for an hour or so, fuming, until his lack of sleep had finally hit him.

He’d pulled off on the side of a back road where he wouldn’t be bothered, laid his seat back, and pulled his coat over his eyes and had gone to sleep.

_Stupid fucking angel._

He’d woken up around one, having managed a good solid five hours of sleep. The day was bright and clear, and Dean was feeling pretty good—until he remembered just why he was out there sleeping in his car and got pissed again.

He’d woken up hungry and so had gone to find a bar—the one he was currently brooding in—and had gotten himself some lunch. Bar food was always a comfort, and he wanted a beer. The burger and fries he ordered were good, and he tried the local brew, which wasn’t half bad at all. And now here he was, sitting in one more nameless bar avoiding going back to the motel—because Cas wanted him to fuck him.

_Dammit._

What the hell, man? To just out of nowhere _proposition_ him like that! He told him—he _told_ him he didn’t want any of that shit, and he _meant_ it. Why wouldn’t Cas just drop it? This was just one more symptom of his weird gender confusion or whatever his problem was. Dean likes girls? Cas wants to be a girl. Dean likes sex? Cas wants to have sex with him.

He rather sourly thought that maybe it wasn’t gender confusion, it was just _Dean_ confusion. It took him forever to figure out that Dean didn’t want him to be a woman, and he obviously still didn’t get why Dean didn’t want to screw him.

He reached for his wallet and left a ten on the bar and then slouched back out to the car. He got in, but he didn’t start it, just sat there in the far corner of the parking lot, glaring at the dashboard.

Did Cas seriously think he’d do that? Did he seriously think he was that fucking _gay_?

_Well, you suck his cock—why wouldn’t he think so?_

_Fuck_ that stupid voice! And fuck it that it always had say stuff that he couldn’t argue with! And fuck it most of all for sounding like _his fucking little brother_!

Well, Cas was _wrong_ , that was all there was to it. There were some lines he _did not cross_ , and this was one of them. He would _not_ hurt kids, he would _not_ turn on his family, and he would _not_ do Cas up the ass! He didn’t even _like_ ass!

…Okay, that was a lie. He liked ass just fine. More than liked, really—it was pretty damn fantastic. But on _women_ , goddammit! And wasn’t the point anyway—yeah, sure, it did the trick, but fantastic though it may be, it was still no substitute. No “replacement,” as Cas said—there wasn’t even any contest. If it came down to a choice, Dean would take the front door over the back every time.

Not that he’d say no if a woman wanted it, though. He leaned back in his seat a little, a smirk crossing his face. Last time he had had been…well, forget how long ago it had been, that was just depressing, but he remembered her. She’d said her name was Scarlett, which he was pretty sure was a lie, but who cared? She was built like Jessica Rabbit and she was into him. He’d gotten her back to his motel room and she was all over him, and at some point he’d been pounding away at her from behind when she’d looked coyly over her shoulder and told him to just stick it in.

Well, he wasn’t one to deny a lady, so he’d obeyed with all speed. Hot _damn_ , that had been awesome; his thighs slapping against those sweet curvy cheeks, his hands on her wide hips as she moaned her encouragement. His eyes fell shut and he could almost see it—could almost _feel_ it, his hips tight against that firm ass, gripping those slim hips as he thrust, following the long line of that smooth back up to the rumpled hair, and then there it was, that coy look over the shoulder with those big blue eyes, and Cas was—

_SON OF A BITCH!_

He jerked upright in his seat, cranked the engine so hard that it squealed, and shot out of the parking lot with a squeal of rubber.

He drove wildly around until he found an on-ramp and got on the highway and took off. He needed to _drive_ , to get the engine running and speed beneath his wheels, because that always made his problems go away—and imagining fucking Cas was a _pretty big fucking problem_!

He crammed in the first tape he could find and cranked it as high as he could stand, hoping the pounding bass would drive that thought right out of his head. And he kept driving, tearing his way through Boston metro traffic and cutting off and flipping off as many people as he could all the way through side A and B of _Houses of the Holy_ , and then he moved on to _Hysteria_. It wasn’t until he was halfway through _Ace of Spades_ that he finally slowed down and found an exit on the north end of town and got off the highway again.

The situation had not improved. But at least he wasn’t ready to shoot himself in the ear now.

Cas—Cas was just an idiot, was all. He—he wasn’t calling Dean a homo, he was just…trying to be nice. And he had a really fucked up idea of what constituted nice. But it was just a bad idea all around. He—he was a freakin’ _virgin_ , for Chrissakes! He didn’t even know what he was offering. He probably just saw it on a porno or whatever he looked at on the internet to make him suggest crap like that. Dean shouldn’t have gotten mad at him for being a twit. He just needed to go back to the motel, sit Cas down, tell him _no_ , explain things in simple terms that even a brain-damaged angel like him could understand, and then it’d be done. And then maybe they could…get back on track with their usual thing. And Dean could make it up to him or something—do something he liked, let him know he wasn’t mad, make sure he knew that he was just fine with the way things were and just get things back to _normal_ between them.

He was passing by a sleazy little strip mall, one that he’d gone by a couple of times in the course of the day, and on impulse pulled into the lot and into a parking place at the sex shop he’d spotted there earlier. Surely he could find something in here that would put a smile on Cas’s face (or at least make him _stop_ with the basset hound eyes).

After getting inside, he was annoyed to realize that his impulse had not been a good one. This kind of place really wasn’t all that applicable to what he and Cas did. Sure, he’d be all over this shit with a woman…but _Cas_? No. No handcuffs, no leather, no feathers, no toys, just…no. So that kinda left him with not much choice other than to check out the different lubes and see if there was something new and exciting over there.

There was the flavored stuff, he supposed, wrinkling his nose at it. That was kinda girly—but if Dean went ahead and…went down (and since Cas was probably gonna still be all weepy after this morning, Dean probably would), maybe that might improve things for him. There was the self-heating stuff—he definitely liked that. And over there was the _real_ stuff, the good thick kind, and that’s what he’d need if they really were gonna—

_What? Fuck! No!_

He whirled on his heel and stormed over to stare furiously at the porn, looking at all the titties and refusing to think about—about what he’d just thought about.

_Dammit, Cas!_

Why did this shit always have to happen to him?! Why did Cas always have to _make_ this shit happen to him?!

He had to get out of here. Angrily, he grabbed a copy of _Clams on the Half-Shell_ instead of the usual—one for when he was on the road, with not a cock in sight—and then marched to the front of the store.

And keeping his eyes front, refusing to look at it, he reached out and snatched up the thick silicone lube and stomped up to the checkout.

He nearly chickened out when he got there. There was a chick at the register, which was fine because they weren’t chatty in places like this. But—Jesus _fuck_ , buying this stuff was practically a big neon sign flashing “I’m gonna duke a guy up the butt!” He _wasn’t_ , goddammit! He just got this stuff ‘cause—if, _maybe_ —son of a _bitch_!

Thinking fast, he took a quick detour to the other side of the shop and found a handy piece of camouflage in the form of a pair of lacy red panties folded up in the shape of a rose attached to a wire stem. High romance, in his younger days. And now if he had that, at least then people would think that he—well, they _wouldn’t_ think _that_ , and that was the important thing. He could buy them for cover and chuck them later.

While the bored-looking girl was ringing him up, he couldn’t help but snort at the thought of actually giving the stupid things to Cas. But then his brain had to go and be a goddamn traitor and point out that Cas would probably take them and fucking _wear_ them, and he didn’t know if that image made him want to crack up or just _throw_ up.

God, he’d never been so happy to get out of a sex shop in his life. He shoved the bag under the seat, safely out of sight, and started the car so he could get away from there.

He wasn’t quite ready to go back there and deal with Cas yet, so he cruised around for a while, pulling off at a convenience store to fill up the tank. While he was there he figured he might as well get some beer. With the crap he’d been thinking about, he needed a drink. He reached for a six-pack first—but then scowled and got a full dozen. If they were—if Cas was gonna keep—it’d be better to have the booze around, is all.

He meandered up the aisles toward the front to pay, stocking up on some nuts and chips and candy, just the usual stuff that was good to have in the car—when he suddenly froze.

_Oh, shit._

_Condoms._

He—he hadn’t worn a slicker in literally _years_. Not since—well, not since starting things with Cas. Hadn’t needed to, not with their messing around. But now he just stared, like they were gonna reach out and bite him, because all he could think about was that if they…that if Cas really wanted…

He paid in a hurry and dashed out to the car, stuffing everything in the passenger’s seat and then rounding the car to throw himself in the driver’s. His fingers curled around the steering wheel, and he glared out at the world. Here he was, Dean Winchester, sitting in the parking lot with a tube of lube and a box of rubbers. Oh, and a pair of panties folded up like a rose.

And with Cas waiting for him back at the motel.

_Fuck my life. Just fuck it._

Resignedly, he pulled out of the parking lot and started back towards the motel. He was not too proud to admit that he took the long way back, stalling, putting off…whatever was going to happen when he got there. Although on the way his eyes happened to fall on a Mexican restaurant, and his stomach perked considerably up at the idea—but, no, Cas was a puss and didn’t like Mexican. Oh, well—he was up in New England, after all. It was probably bland knock-off Italian shit wearing a sombrero and trying to pass for Mexican. But he supposed he could pick up something to eat for an early dinner, and the next restaurant he saw was a little Greek place that looked promising, so he stopped there. They had a dinner deal of a gyro with pita, hummus, and fries, so he got two and had them throw in some baklava; of all the wonderful sugary things in the world, turned out Cas really just liked honey the best. Dork.

On the way back, though, the scent of veal wafting out the sack on the seat next to him, he nearly had a wreck when he spotted a family of _real_ Mexicans on the side of the road selling tamales out of the back of a pickup that was practically from the Stone Age. Man, forget Cas, _that’s_ what he was talking about! He quickly pulled off and bought himself a whole mess of tamales. After a moment’s thought, he grudgingly had them charge him for a drink too and went to digging around in the ice-filled cooler sitting down by the tires until he found a Mountain Dew.

After bidding that happy little industry goodbye, he headed on back to the motel. With the smell of spicy beef making his mouth water, he was in a much better mood by the time he got back to their motel. His face only got a little hot when he fished that stupid pair of underwear out of the sack and stuffed them in the dumpster, and after that he just gathered everything up and made his way to the door.

He attempted to get the key out of his pocket to unlock the door despite his full hands, but he finally just gave it up as a lost cause and kicked the door. “Cas?” he yelled through it. “Hey, Cas, open up!”

There was the sound of working locks and the chain sliding away, and then Cas swung open the door, looking worried. Dean shouldered past him and into the room—why the hell was it so dark in here? “Come on, I brought dinner,” he said, plonking everything down on the table (although he quickly snatched up one particular bag and stuffed it under the bed, safely out of sight).

“Turn on some lights, man—it’s like tomb in here,” he instructed as he pulled the Styrofoam clamshells out of the plastic sack and set them at opposite ends of the table. He put Cas’s Mountain Dew down with a plunk and then took the beer over to the mini-fridge, grabbing one for himself and popping it open with a hiss as he made his way back.

Cas had turned on the lights like he was told, and now was hovering by the side of the table, not sitting down and looking like he was going to talk. Dean didn’t want to hear it. “Eat up, dude, before it gets cold.”

Cas looked at the floor but sat down, fidgeting for a bit, his eyes cutting up to Dean, and Dean ignored him. He just sat down in his chair and opened up his container and set to working on his dinner.

It was some tasty stuff, too, and he didn’t mess around. It wasn’t until he’d put a sizeable dent in it that he finally decided to look up at Cas—and incredulously saw that he’d _inhaled_ his food. There were just a little handful of fries and a few bits of meat left in the bottom of his container, and he was currently using a scrap of pita bread to sop up the last bits of hummus and yogurt sauce from their little plastic cups.

“Hungry?” he asked sarcastically—but then an ugly suspicion reared its head. “Did you eat anything today?” he asked accusingly.

Cas looked up from his tzatziki sauce, but finished chewing and swallowing his bread before he said, “I had some chips from the vending machine in the lobby.”

Dean brushed that off with a scoff. “What, is that all?” he asked, and at Cas’s vaguely guilty look, Dean demanded, “Why the hell didn’t you go get anything else?”

“You had the car,” he answered.

 _Oh, for God’s sake…_ Dean glared at him and said, “Cas, there’s a gas station a block away—you could have gone and gotten a sandwich or something!”

“I didn’t have any more money.”

“Well, then why didn’t you just go outside and dig up some worms—you could have sat in here in the dark and eaten those!” he sneered, and ignoring Cas’s bewildered look, shoved his half-eaten dinner across the table towards him. “Eat that,” he ordered, and before Cas could protest he added, “I’m fine, I have these too,” and reached down and brought up his sack of tamales.

Cas hesitated for a moment, but when Dean pulled out the fat waxed-paper bundle from the greasy paper sack, he tucked into the rest of Dean’s food, hesitantly at first but with increasing gusto.

The tamales were still hot when he opened them, and he picked one up and unwrapped the rough corn husk, revealing the cornmeal dough and meat inside. He took a bite and nearly moaned with bliss—oh, that was heaven. The best tamales were the ones that came with a dozen health code violations, and these right here were practically hazardous waste. They were _awesome_.

He ate every last one of them and all the green salsa they came with, washing them down with another beer, and then sat back and let out a contented belch. Cas had finished off the rest of his food by then, and the weirdo was pressing his fingers to the bottom of the containers, picking up any stray salt and licking it off. Dean had once suggested he get a salt lick—and had, of course, been met with confusion. He shook his head and then fished out the last white paper bag and tossed it across the table to him. “Here,” Dean said. Cas looked quizzically inside, and brightened to find the baklava.

Dean let him have it all, refusing his attempts to share and getting himself a Snickers bar from the supplies he’d bought at the gas station. He restrained himself and didn’t get another beer, instead fiddling with the empty wrapper in his hands and not looking at Cas.

They’d eaten. Food was gone, Dean was not gonna drink anymore. He figured he had three options at this point.

He could tell Cas to get up because they were heading out now. They needed to get to South Dakota and find a new case. Their stuff was mostly packed up anyway. It wouldn’t be too hard to zip out, even though he’d booked the motel for two nights and he’d be wasting some of Ronald Throckmorton’s hard-earned credit card cash.

He could deliberately ignore Cas, turning on the TV to watch a movie or some mindless sitcom—definitely not one of his favorite late-night cable shows, though, not with Cas around. Then he could go to bed and they could head out tomorrow morning or afternoon.

Or he could tell Cas to get on the bed, ‘cause he was gonna show him that Heaven had nothing on a Dean Winchester ass-reaming.

Oh, fuck him sideways—he knew exactly which door it was gonna be. Yeah. The _back_ door.

_Sonofa—this sucks!_

Heaving a sigh, he got to his feet, trying to figure out a decent way to lead into this subject without just bluntly asking why the hell Cas wanted Dean to fuck him in the ass before telling him he’d bought everything they’d need so he _could_ fuck him in the ass.

Goddammit. That sounded horrible.

The thing that got him talking was the fact that he really, _really_ didn’t want to hear Cas try and start the conversation; he was sitting over there picking at his trash from dinner and looking dejected, and Dean just knew that he waiting for the exact moment to try and bring it up again in that pitiful Cas way that would make Dean as uncomfortable as possible. So he just manned up and started in.

“Cas,” he sighed, scratching the back of his neck and kicking a little at the leg of one of the beds, “About—about this morning.”

“I’m sorry, Dean, I didn’t mean to—”

“Shut _up_ , Cas,” he cut him off—he wasn’t kidding when he said he didn’t want to listen to him being pitiful. “Let me finish.” He exhaled hugely before starting again. “I…did a lot of thinkin’ while I was out. And—and I get that you’re trying to…be nice. I get that you think I’m hard up and you just wanna help, and…that you for some reason think that is the only way you can… _replace_ it. But…” He ran a hand over his face and finally turned around, facing him, and yes, there he was, sitting there staring at him and looking sadder than an orphan kitten in the rain because Dean wasn’t jumping at the opportunity to have sex with him.

_Dammit!_

“Okay. Fine. You think me… _doing_ you like that would make me happy. Well, it’s not gonna make me happy at all if—if you don’t really…want to do it yourself, or—even know what it is you wanna do.” He could barely hold Cas’s gaze, concentrating on willing himself not to start blushing, because this was embarrassing enough. “Do you…Cas, do you even want this? Don’t you say you wanna do it because you think it would make me happy. Do _you_ want to do it because—because you think…you might…uh, like it. ‘Cause—dammit, I’m not doing something to you that you don’t _want_ to do but are trying to get me to do anyway ‘cause—”

He stopped, because now he was babbling. He hated babbling at Cas, because sometimes he babbled too quickly and Cas just wound up getting baffled and then nothing got done. Cas didn’t look confused, though, which Dean supposed was good.

Then he started talking and Dean realized no, it was not good at all. “I do want to do this with you, Dean,” he said quietly. “I’ve…researched it. I’ve also read enough books and seen enough in human media to know that… _real_ sex means a great deal to most humans. And I know it means a great deal to you, and if this is the closest you—and I—can come to…having that, then I do want it.”

Right. Dean was officially going to make sure everyone knew the new rule—Cas was not allowed to ever, _ever_ read another harlequin romance. He _knew_ that had been a bad idea, to let him read the stack that Bobby had in his house for some inexplicable reason, but no, Bobby had thought it was funny to see the angel sitting at the kitchen eating lunch and poring over _Rescued by the Brooding Tycoon_ with the dog-eared copy of _The King’s Courtesan_ sitting next to him. Yeah, well, Bobby didn’t have to deal with him romanticizing _buttsex_.

Dean twitched, turning again, and caught sight of the very edge of the plastic bag sticking out from under the bed. Heavy plastic, opaque white, and nondescript so nobody would know what was in it or where you’d been shopping.

 _Fuck. I bought lube and a box of condoms so I could pork a_ dude _._

 _No_ , simpered the Sam Voice, and he was _really_ not interested in hearing the Sam Voice at a time like this, but just like the genuine article, it wouldn’t shut up. _You bought lube and a box of condoms so you could have sex with_ Cas _._

_God. Fucking. Dammit._

Dean forced himself to bend down and pull the bag out, but he didn’t get anything out of it, instead just picking at the loops. “So that’d—that’d make you happy,” Dean managed. “If I…if we did that. You seriously want to do this, and not just ‘cause you—think _I_ want it?”

Cas’s answer was short and simple and he sucked for it. “Yes.”

He was twisting the plastic in his hands now, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “S’your first time—you know it won’t be all that great for you. In fact, it’s probably gonna hurt,” Dean said bluntly.

“I know,” Cas replied. Dean did not miss that tone—he was getting _hopeful_. Shit. “I have read material on the subject, and—”

“I don’t wanna hear about your ‘research,’ you perv,” Dean interrupted flatly. “Just—okay. Just so you know what it’ll…be like for you.” And worst of all, Dean _knew_ that Cas knew. After all, several years ago Cas had very sincerely told Dean that he’d researched blowjobs and wanted to give him one, and look at how _that_ had turned out.

Dean was out of excuses. Cas knew what he was getting into and wanted it for himself as well as making Dean happy, and Dean had—had a friggin’ _fantasy_ about it earlier.

Holy shit. He was…seriously about to agree to this.

“Come here,” Dean grunted. Cas obeyed, standing up and padding over to sit beside him on the bed. He swallowed hard, staring at the innocuous plastic sack in his hand, trying to work up the nerve to open it. “Cas,” Dean said, forcing his throat to work, “I—I don’t care how much you…think I might be—getting off on it or enjoying it. If—if you don’t like it or if it…if it _hurts_ you, you tell me to stop.” He wanted to look Cas in the eye when he said it, but he couldn’t do it. Not with this. “I mean it,” he added, injecting some force into his voice.

“I understand,” Cas murmured, and why did Cas always have to sound so fucking _pleased_ when Dean finally agreed to crap like this?! After squeezing the plastic so hard his knuckles turned white, he finally opened the bag and reached inside, struggling not to think what this looked like, him sitting next to Cas in a no-tell motel with a box of condoms in one hand and a thing of lube in the other, and Cas undoubtedly staring at him with hearts for eyes because _yay_ , he was gonna get boned by Dean Winchester.

 _Son of a_ bitch _._

“Here,” he said gruffly, shoving them both at Cas. “Put those—put those on the night table.”

Cas’s hands joined his, taking the accusing items away from him, and the bed shifted as he crawled across it to set them down while Dean slowly untied the laces on his boots, taking his time to delay the inevitable—Jesus Christ, what had his life become, that he was actively _delaying having sex_ now?

This was going to be horrible. This was going to be embarrassing and awful and it was going to be _sex with a fucking man_. This was going to be the gayest damn thing he’d ever done in his _life_ , and he’d sucked dick. Why? _Why_ was he doing this? He kicked his shoes off with more force than was necessary, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, scrubbing a hand across his eyes. There was no possible way he was gonna be able to look himself in the eye tomorrow morning—oh, dammit, and in a few days he was gonna have to face Sam and Bobby. Yeah, that was gonna be fun, having to look at those two after he’d done a guy up the butt, and somehow they’d fucking _know_ , because last year Sam had pretty much told him just how _much_ he knew, so why wouldn’t they know this, too?

His bad-tempered and frankly mortified musings were interrupted as he felt the mattress shift again and suddenly Cas was behind him, his arms curling around him, both hands sliding up under his shirt. One hand stayed low on Dean’s stomach while the other went unerringly for his ribs, and then he felt lips pressing softly against the back of his neck. Cas nuzzled him, his chest warm against Dean’s back, and Dean couldn’t help but shiver as Cas breathed gently against his skin.

“Thank you, Dean,” he sighed against the side of his neck, sounding utterly and completely content, no trace of worry left, his fingers stroking Dean’s flesh, and then his mouth was back, kissing and nibbling his throat.

Cas was so…so _bizarre_. Why would something like this make him so _happy_? He had never had sex like this, and yet Dean agreeing to do it to him just…

Dean reached up to stroke Cas’s hair, pressing him a little closer against his neck, closing his eyes. He supposed…he supposed _that_ was reason enough to go through with this. Cas was happy, and for all Cas did pretty much nothing to himself, spending all of his time and effort on trying to please Dean, Dean was absolutely no slouch in the selfless department, dammit. He wanted Cas to be happy, too. And—well. Fine. He’d do it.

Cas continued to just rub his cheek against Dean’s neck and shoulder, hugging him from behind, and for a minute Dean wondered if Cas ever planned on trying to get things started—or even if he wanted to tonight. But then the hand on his stomach trailed downward to his crotch, and Dean couldn’t help but push his hips forward a little against Cas’s squeezing grip.

Grabbing Cas’s wrist, he managed to twist himself around so that he was facing Cas, pushing him backwards onto the bed and up towards the pillows as he kissed him, his mouth open and tongue seeking.

_Okay. Let’s do this._


	2. Keep on Hammering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things did not go according to Dean’s plan. They didn’t go according to Cas’s, either.

It was pretty dark outside, and even darker in the motel room, what with the drawn curtains. Dean’s eyes had long-since adjusted, though, and all he was doing was staring at the ceiling. Sometimes he stared at the opposite wall, though, too. And occasionally at the inside of his eyelids. So long as what he was staring at was _not_ right beside him in bed. So long as what he was staring at was _not Cas_.

His body was still loose with post-orgasmic exhaustion—it tended to hit him harder these days, because getting older sucked—but he knew he wasn’t gonna be falling asleep soon. Not with his brain turning over and over and _over_ what he’d just done.

And what had he just done? Why, he’d stuck his dick all up in Cas and made him his bitch.

No. No, that was not what he’d done. At all. And that’s why it was horrible. He’d made out with him. He’d stripped him down. He’d jerked him off a little and fondled his balls, and then he’d gone down on him. After all, he’d wanted to be extra-nice before The Horror, so he’d sucked cock for a few. And while he’d been sucking cock? Yeah—he’d been fingering him. Dean had never done that to Cas before, and given what the plan was, it was a _necessity_ more than anything. But that didn’t matter—Cas had _liked_ it. Oh, Dean had gone all out, and Cas liked it so much that he just came all over everywhere in hardly any time at all; he’d barely lasted a minute before he nearly shot Dean in the face with his load, the bastard. Wasn’t Dean just so good. _Too_ good, because he’d wanted to put it off as long as possible, but after that he couldn’t. So once all that was done? He’d unwrapped a condom for the first time in _nine fucking years_ , popped that bad boy on his dick, flipped Cas over and had—had—

…had sex with Cas. In the ass.

And the worst part of all of what had just happened was that he, Dean Winchester, had gotten off.

Oh, it wasn’t like it’d been _easy_. For the first couple of minutes, he’d actually had to keep his eyes squeezed shut and think of women, like he hadn’t had to since those first times he let Cas get him off. But there was no denying what he’d been thinking about at the end. Yeah. All he’d been thinking at the end—right when he finally…finally _came_ —was that it felt _good_ , so hot and tight, and it was _Cas_ , and he was doing him, and he…fucking _liked_ it.

He just had full-out gay sex with Cas—and it wasn’t just a quick, in-and-out butt-fuck, no, it had been sex with all the trimmings—and he _liked_ it and _got off_ on it.

Oh, Jesus fucking _Christ_.

There was no getting around this one. He couldn’t beat around the bush and pretend it was something else. He always said that what he and Cas did was just fooling around, or not really sex, or—anything to keep from saying it was…friggin’ _gay_. But this was. This was most _definitely_ gay sex, and the only thing that he’d done tonight that wasn’t something he’d _already_ done to Cas before was fuckin’ him from behind.

And every time—including this one—he’d liked it. Loved it. Gotten off on it. Jerked off to it sometimes when he was alone and Cas was hundreds of miles away.

Gay sex. Dean was getting off on gay sex, and had been getting off on it for nine years.

_What the fuck…_

He wasn’t sure what to do. He was horribly uncomfortable, laying here next to Cas, refusing to touch him—just the thought made his face heat up. Cas, fortunately, seemed to know Dean didn’t want to be touched, and was staying over on his side of the bed; Dean hadn’t had the balls to look at him yet. He hadn’t looked at him since the sparks had finally faded behind his eyelids and he’d become horribly aware that he was going soft _in Cas’s ass_ because he’d just _gone off_ in there and had quickly rolled away from him, and had nearly forgotten to peel the used condom off in his haste. But he had, and knew that he would _definitely_ be taking the trash out for housekeeping, because he was not about to risk one of them seeing what was in the garbage and getting an inkling of what had been going on in here. A wad of tissues in the trash was one thing. That condom was more incriminating than a guy standing over a corpse with a smoking gun in his hand while screaming, “I totally shot this person in the face!”

Goddammit. He knew he’d have to face Cas sooner or later, and he knew that sooner tended to be better because it gave Cas less time to dwell on things and get ideas. So he steeled himself and slowly looked to the right.

Okay. That was definitely new, and was probably not good. Cas was picking at the sheet he had pulled up to his chest, staring at his hands and looking both confused and concerned. Dean did not like the look of that, and, despite the fact that he would love nothing better right now than to say absolutely nothing and crawl out of this bed and into the other one and sleep this whole horrible experience away despite it probably being only seven-thirty in the evening, he made himself talk—he was not gonna do that to Cas.

Clearing his throat, he asked, “Are you okay?” dimly pleased that his voice didn’t crack.

Cas looked back at him, and then he licked his lips a little. “Yes.”

Crap. Cas was such a liar. Dammit, he _knew_ Cas hadn’t done what he’d been told—Dean had _told_ him to give a high-sign if he didn’t like it or if it hurt too much. He knew he hadn’t done enough to get him ready beforehand—Cas going off so soon had ruined his plans to delay it by fingering him more, but once Cas was done, he couldn’t bring himself to keep it up, not knowing what he was doing it _for_. He _knew_ it had hurt, for those first few minutes at least, because Cas had been all tense and had made little noises that were _not_ sexy. But no, he hadn’t said a fucking word even though he’d been in _pain_ , but _shit_ , Dean had asked him if he needed him to stop and he’d said no, and he’d _known_ Cas would get depressed if he stopped without a signal and— _dammit!_

“That…was not entirely what I was expecting.”

Dean stared at him, half-tempted to ask just what the hell he _had_ been expecting from taking it up the ass, but he knew he seriously did not want the answer to that. He didn’t want to talk about this at all. Ever. In fact, he wanted to pretend it had never happened. He wanted to go back to whatever state he’d been in before having it shoved in his face that he didn’t have a swagger in his step anymore, but instead had a _sashay_ in his step.

He couldn’t lie here with Cas anymore. He needed to get up. It was way too early to sleep, so he could use that as an excuse to get out of bed and away from Cas. Flinging the covers off of himself, he quickly grabbed his shorts and pulled them on—he wasn’t all that fond of letting it all hang out in front of Cas on a good day, let alone after…this. He supposed Cas would need to shower now, and he grimaced at the thought; Dean had already taken care of himself, but Cas hadn’t moved much, so he was probably still a mess—a _bad_ mess.

“Why don’t…uh, you…wash up,” Dean muttered, going over to wash his hands. “Did you…shower at all today?”

“No,” Cas said quietly, and Dean heard the bed moving as Cas started to get up. He couldn’t help it—he turned to look, watching as—

—as Cas fucking _cringed_ when he got to his feet, and _fuck me fuck me fuck me he’s walking funny_ —

“Take a bath,” Dean blurted out.

Cas turned to look at him as he went by, staring at him in confusion. “What?”

“A bath,” Dean repeated, more forcefully this time. “Not a shower.”

“But I prefer showers—” Cas started.

Dean waved a hand to cut him off. “ _Bath_ , dammit,” he ordered. “A _hot_ one. Just—just do it, okay? And don’t just hop in and hop out, either! Soak!”

Cas still looked bewildered, but he just nodded and Dean couldn’t watch him wince his way into the bathroom anymore, not bothering to dry his hands as he stomped over to pull on his shirt.

 _Shit!_ He’d _done_ that to Cas. He’d—he’d _hurt_ him. In a horrible way! In a horribly _gay_ way! And to make it all the more awful, he’d hurt him like that while he’d been _getting off_! Yes, while Dean had been having a gay old time, Cas had been uncomfortable and unhappy and _in pain_ , all because Dean had been in a hurry to get it over with. Jesus Christ, he felt extra-horrible now. Yes, this had been a _spectacular_ idea, hadn’t it?! _Fuck you, Cas!_

_Yep. You did. And you even bought him dinner before you did it._

_SHIT!_

He started pacing furiously, listening to the sound of the water running in the bathroom. Okay—he needed to calm down and stop getting mad at Cas because that wasn’t going to fix anything. This…wasn’t his fault, anyway. No, the reason Cas was now walking like that because Dean hadn’t put his foot down. He could have just said no. He’d _meant_ to just say no. How the hell did he get from there to here? He’d said yes to make Cas happy, and he hadn’t been liking it at all—but in the end he had. Okay, so somehow he’d gone from the most uncomfortable he’d ever been in his life to thinking yes, yes, sweet ass _yes_. And when he got that way he…shit.

He did _not_ want to think back on it, but he just…he struggled to think of a time where he might’ve…gone too hard. He’d known Cas probably wouldn’t have a good time of it, but he didn’t want to think he’d made it _worse_.

Ignoring the feeling in the pit of his stomach that he didn’t know was nausea or…something else, he remembered when he’d finally started—God help him—getting into it. It’d been when—yeah. It’d been then. He’d had Cas on his stomach because there was no way in _hell_ he was gonna do that while facing him, and he’d thought that on the side might be more uncomfortable for him—and hands and knees was just way too fucking much. Dean had been propped up on his palms, trying to figure out a way to make this go faster because he just _knew_ Cas wasn’t liking it and he’d just looked down and _Jesus Christ_ , he was having sex with a _man_ , and then Cas had—Cas had looked back at him.

His face was flushed, his breath coming in quick bursts from his open mouth, and he looked over his shoulder at him with those big blue eyes.

He didn’t _think_ he’d really started…going harder after that, but that look had definitely helped things along and it didn’t last much longer. He didn’t really remember what he’d been doing those seconds right before he’d finished, and he figured that must’ve been where he’d dropped down on his elbows to get closer to him, and he’d pressed his face against Cas’s shoulder to muffle the moan he’d let out when he’d come. That must’ve been it. Goddammit.

He supposed he could try making excuses. It’d been over nine years since he’d had real sex, so he’d been hard up. Nope, that one wouldn’t fly—he’d given Cas the tenth degree for trying to use that excuse on him to actually _do_ this. He’d been imagining women the whole time? Nope. It had been all Cas when he’d finally started liking it. He only imagined women when he’d been _so not enjoying it_. Yeah, that made him feel a _whole_ lot better. He decided to stop with the excuses while he was still ahead.

Dean had had some bad sex experiences in his time, but this one was probably one of the worst simply because it _had_ been…decent. No, not even that, but not horrible. Towards the end, anyway—everything else was terrible.

Fuck. He felt just…he didn’t feel _dirty_ , but he sure as hell didn’t feel _great_. He imagined he felt like any guy would feel after having gay sex for the first time and finding out he liked it. Cas had apparently been quite right in thinking he was flaming.

…or maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he didn’t enjoy gay sex. Maybe he…just enjoyed Cas sex. Except Cas was a guy. So was it gay Cas sex?

 _Sonofabitch_ , why was the only completely stable relationship that lasted longer than a year or two _so goddamned weird_?!

He sank back onto the bed, leaning his head into his hands.

No. It was what it always was and what it always had been. It was exactly what it was nine years ago, when that little shit that was his little brother stated it better than he ever could, and had summed it up in a single sentence.

_You like pussy—and you like Cas._

He hadn’t enjoyed _sex_ with Cas until…he’d thought of it as sex with Cas. Not with a guy—with Cas. Because Cas was Cas and he’d come to terms with the fact that he was hopelessly in love with the bastard, and that meant Dean was just stuck with the fact that the person he fell for was Cas and Cas was a guy.

That didn’t mean he was gonna fuck him in the ass again, though! That was not part of the deal! Just because he’d—he’d gotten off didn’t mean he loved it, dammit! It was still him sticking his dick in another guy’s cornhole!

No…no, he needed to…stop thinking like that. It was all just…all just Cas. No matter what it was he was doing, he was doing it to _Cas_. And Cas was just… _different._

Dean was mostly calm by the time Cas came shuffling out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist. Dean had had the time to calm down because Cas _had_ followed orders this time and had stayed in there for a ridiculous amount of time—Dean wondered if he’d sat in there until the water got cold, and when he saw Cas shivering as he wandered towards his duffle, he realized he probably did.

He waited until Cas had gotten on at least shorts and a shirt before he spoke. “Get over here,” he said gruffly, reaching over towards the nightstand and deliberately ignoring the open box and tube next to the beer and aspirin he wanted. When he leaned up again, Cas was standing next to him, still looking like he was fretting and unsure of what he should do or say. “Sit down,” Dean ordered. Cas sat, and Dean squinted when he saw that he sat more gingerly than normal. “Here,” he said, thrusting the beer into Cas’s hand. “Take these,” he continued, dropping the aspirin into his other hand.

After Cas had obediently swallowed the pills, holding the beer by the neck of the bottle and letting it dangle between his knees, Dean started up again. “Cas…I told you to give me a high sign if…you didn’t like it,” he began, trying to be stern, but it wasn’t very effective and he knew it because he was still having trouble looking at Cas.

“I was all right,” Cas said. “It didn’t hurt for long.”

 _Oh God, this is awkward._ “But you didn’t…like it for the rest of it,” Dean managed.

“There were times when it felt…pleasant,” he replied a little hesitantly. “But I knew before we started that it would be…uncomfortable for me.”

“Right,” Dean muttered, staring at the floor and scratching his knee. “So we…don’t need to do that anymore. I mean, we did it, like you wanted. So now we’re good.”

He glanced over just in time to see Cas looking up at him, all big eyes and concern. “Did you enjoy it, Dean?” he asked softly.

“ _No!_ ” Dean blurted out before he could think about the question he’d been asked, and he immediately saw the way Cas’s face was falling, and he started _babbling_ , “I mean, yeah, I—maybe not at first—there were times—look, I _got off_ , didn’t I?!”

This was not going well. “Cas,” Dean groaned, rubbing his hand across his face before swallowing his general mortification and making himself put an arm (rather stiffly) across Cas’s shoulders. “Cas, look, it’s like this: doing—doing it that way, it—it isn’t any more _real_ than—than anything else we do. I—I’ve been—okay. Everything we do—from…from _that_ to—to anything else. It’s all sex, okay? It is—it’s all _real sex_. And I’m not just sayin’ that to make you feel better, I’m saying it because—because it is. I mean it.”

And he did. There was no way in hell now he could deny it wasn’t real sex, either, not with how he’d done it all right before _doing Cas_.

“You…said you wanted to do that ‘cause you wanted to be all close to me or some shit,” Dean continued. “Well, we…were. Before. It was all real, and I was just…sayin’ it wasn’t because I was an asshat, okay?” _And this whole conversation isn’t really helping me to convince myself I didn’t just turn gay about thirty minutes ago._ “I don’t _need_ this to be… _with_ you the way you want me to be with you. I never asked for it not ‘cause—‘cause I didn’t want it—and I really didn’t—but because _I didn’t need it_. I was—I _am_ seriously happy with what we do. It’s really all I want and need, ‘cause—‘cause it’s just _you_ , okay?”

Holy crap, he wasn’t turning gay—he was just gonna spontaneously grow a _vagina_ after all this, and then _Cas_ could do all the fucking. Dean twitched at the thought, but stayed where he was, trying to look at Cas again. But it didn’t matter if he did, Cas was still looking at the floor, so Dean just started up once more.

“And…yeah. I…liked it in the end. I got off. I friggin’ had sex with you, okay? You can… _do_ that for me. You can play the fucking girl,” Dean said before he thought better of it, but he ignored the way his neck felt red and charged forward still. “But the point is…I don’t _need_ you to.”

Cas finally raised his head to look back at him, and Dean was relieved to see that at least he didn’t look depressed now. Really, he looked…mostly okay. Dean supposed that would do. For now, he needed to take care of the fact that Cas had goosebumps.

“Come on,” Dean huffed, jerking his head in the direction of the pillows. “Get under the blankets, you’re freezing.”

Cas usually obeyed orders pretty promptly, but there were a handful that he always obeyed faster than others—and “get warm” was probably number two on his list (number one was definitely “have sex with Dean”). Cas was practically scurrying up there, pulling down the rumpled sheets and wrapping himself up like an angelic burrito. Dean snorted at the image and got in next to him, and after a moment’s hesitation went ahead and pulled him close, rubbing rough circles on his back. It felt…weird, to be doing this, after—everything, but Cas was cold and damp and Dean was trying to be nice.

“I just want you to be happy, Dean,” Cas suddenly said.

Dean pursed his lips. “What—and I don’t want _you_ to be happy?” Cas looked up at him, and Dean sighed abruptly. “Cas, I think we’re both pretty happy.”

Cas blinked at him a moment more, and Dean tensed a little when he curled up closer to him, because he still wasn’t entirely comfortable with this—because he’d just done Cas in the butt—but he wasn’t gonna push him off until he knew Cas was okay.

“Just…we don’t need to do that anymore,” Dean said delicately.

Cas pulled back a little, staring up at Dean. “All right—but since you liked it…if you ever do want to again, I wouldn’t mind. It was only uncomfortable at first.”

And that was a very good way to end cuddle time. “Right,” Dean muttered, and then carefully removed his arms from around Cas to make sure it didn’t look like he was trying to get away from him (except how he kind of was).

It was still too early to sleep, but there was nothing else to _do_. So Dean, out of ideas, just reached over, grabbed the remote, and turned on the TV. He started channel surfing until he found what looked like a mindless action movie, and so left it there, tossing the remote back on the nightstand. Then he settled in more comfortably next to Cas, lacing his fingers behind his head and feeling as relaxed as he could at this point in the same bed with Cas.

And then he realized exactly what this looked like. He’d just had sex with Cas, and now they were sitting together in the same bed watching TV.

_Jesus Christ, we look like an old married couple._

He scooted just a little further away from Cas.

* * *

It was a stupid day-time talk show, but Dean didn’t care. He was absolutely sick of The Discovery Channel and Animal Planet, so he’d gladly take this badly-done drama over watching one more four-legged beast take down another four-legged beast.

It was about three in the afternoon. They had the motel until tomorrow morning, so they were just taking advantage of the downtime. Just a nice, relaxing day doing absolutely nothing with nobody around to bug them.

Well, it _would_ have been a relaxing day, but Cas was being a _complete bitch_.

Despite it being pretty early, Dean hadn’t lasted long after he’d settled in bed to watch TV last night. He must’ve fallen asleep before Cas, because when he finally woke up, the room was silent. He’d slowly opened his eyes, feeling incredibly rested and good about things—well, until he’d spotted Cas right next to him, and the little bastard had somehow gotten one of his legs right between Dean’s so they were all tangled up, so Dean couldn’t get the hell away from him when the memory of everything he’d done last night suddenly slammed back into him.

When he’d finally managed to move a little and see what time it was, he saw it was six-fifteen in the morning, which meant that, unless he planned on just sitting here letting Cas fondle him in his sleep for probably another hour and a half, he was just gonna have to wake Cas up to get out of bed. Well, it would serve him right anyway for getting up in his business like that in the night. He hadn’t moved immediately, though, just blinked away the last vestiges of sleepiness, glaring down at the peaceful expression Cas had all over him.

He’d eventually decided fifteen minutes was enough—Cas would just deal with having his beauty sleep interrupted. Sure enough, as soon as he’d started moving, Cas grunted softly, his eyes fluttering open, and the first thing he’d seen was Dean, who had just rolled his eyes at the ridiculously soppy expression Cas had gotten before telling him to get off of him so he could get up. Cas had obliged him, and once he’d gotten himself all untangled from Cas’s ropy arms and legs, he’d ordered him to go back to sleep. Cas hadn’t put up a protest, which wasn’t surprising—Dean knew that Cas was always up for sleeping in if he could get away with it (which was not often when Bobby was his alarm clock). After that, Dean had just quietly taken a shower and gotten dressed before slipping out of the room to sit outside in the car and be alone for a bit.

He’d been…surprisingly mellow. He wasn’t relaxed, not by a long shot, but…hell, the morning after the first time he’d sucked Cas off had been worse than this. He felt weird, kind of skeevy, and didn’t want to think about what he’d done last night _at all_ , but…he could deal. That felt…mostly good. Dean could live with that.

By the time he’d decided to go grab something to eat for breakfast, it had been about seven-thirty. He’d arrived back at the motel at eight with two Styrofoam boxes from IHOP; Dean normally didn’t go for chain restaurants, but dammit, he was in a big city and felt like splurging. He’d seen it on his drive around yesterday, and today he wanted some pancakes; besides, his newest credit card still had plenty of life on it—he was gonna do it. He’d whipped into the parking lot and charged inside, and after a quick glimpse down the pancake menu had ordered two full meals of cinnamon apple pancakes. Came with eggs and bacon and hash browns, too. Awesome.

Dean had decided eight was late enough for that lazy-ass to sleep in, so he’d swept into the motel with no attempt at quiet and had switched on the light with his elbow. “Wake up, dude,” he’d called loudly, and had nearly laughed out loud when he saw Cas trying to cringe his way back under the covers to escape the sudden noise and light. “Come on—I have breakfast.”

Dean had set himself up at the table, but when he turned around holding Cas’s food, he scowled when he saw Cas was trying to get out of bed. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded. “Get back in there.”

Cas had blinked at him, bleary and blank. “You’re not getting out of bed right now,” Dean said gruffly. “Here.” And he set the box on the blankets and the syrup and butter containers and the OJ that he’d picked up for him on the way back next to him. “Go ahead and eat there.”

He had still looked confused, and he stared at Dean, who had already sat down and was opening everything up, smiling in anticipation at the still-hot pancakes that smelled like an apple pie. He was almost tempted to forgo the syrup and butter and just pick one up with his fingers, roll it up like a tortilla, and go to town, but he didn’t—he knew the only thing that could possibly make these sweet pieces of heaven better was more sugar and some added fat. Eventually, once Dean started in, Cas had opened his breakfast up, too, and they’d eaten in silence.

The occasional glance over at the bed had showed that Cas definitely approved of Dean’s choice of restaurant. He was amused to see that Cas actually did skip the butter and syrup and was simply eating the pancakes straight.

Once they’d finished, Dean had immediately gotten mad at Cas again when he’d started to get up.

“Dammit, where are you going now?” Dean had growled.

Cas had paused, looking very unsure. “I…need to brush my teeth and use the bathroom…May I?” he’d asked hesitantly.

His neck flushing a little, Dean had “allowed” him. He’d gotten up, and Dean had tensed—was he walking funny? He was still walking funny, wasn’t he? _Goddammit!_

When Cas had finished in the bathroom, Dean had already cleared the trash and taken it out to the dumpster (along with any and all evidence that he’d had sex with a dude last night). The second he emerged, Dean had made him eat some more aspirin before ordering him right back into bed. Because he’d started looking pitiful along with looking confused, Dean had very grudgingly stretched out on the bed with him, not bothering to get under the blankets.

Dean had wanted to watch the morning cartoons—and he figured it was an important part of Cas’s education as a human anyway—but after having to deal with that idiot attempt to actually analyze the things and find deeper meaning in them, Dean had given up. In the end, he’d been generous and had just given Cas the remote. He’d not even channel-surfed—he’d gone straight to Animal Planet, and it had been on _Big Cat Diary_. Dean hadn’t been all that keen on it, but he’d not said anything and just idly gone along with it, even going so far as to sling an arm around Cas while they watched. And it had all been great until Cas had gotten _ideas_.

Oh, he’d started slow about it—he obviously had thought he was being very clever. Dean hadn’t been looking at him, but he’d felt him start cuddling up closer, and then an arm had wrapped around his middle. Dean hadn’t thought anything of it—Cas was like that, and was probably both trying to get warm and sneak in some snuggling that he hadn’t gotten last night. Dean had rolled his eyes and squeezed his shoulders with his free arm, feeling fingers stroking his ribs through his shirt, but he’d glanced down when he felt lips press against his jaw.

Cas has been looking back, all dewy-eyed and serene, and Dean hadn’t objected when he’d kissed him. That’d been fine. He was up for a little kissing. He’d brushed the backs of his fingers along Cas’s cheek, sighing when Cas ran the tip of his tongue along Dean’s lower lip, and _hmming_ against his mouth when he felt Cas’s hand drifting lower—

Wait a minute—

_Dammit, Cas!_

He’d pulled back immediately yanking Cas’s hand away from where he’d been trying to sneak up on his dick and had given Cas the sternest glare he could muster (and he knew it wasn’t half-bad). “Quit it,” he growled.

Cas had looked bewildered and worried. “Is something—” he’d started.

“You don’t need to be…doing anything right now,” Dean had just insisted, and had turned the TV up and deliberately ignored Cas—while keeping his hands firmly within his own so he couldn’t do any pawing.

It’d gone like that for a while until about eleven-thirty—both he and Cas had been warm and relaxed and had dozed on and off while sitting together, but Dean’s stomach had eventually growled and that had signaled it was about time for lunch. Cas had wanted to go with him to get something, but that was _so not happening_. The way he’d gotten out of bed that morning—Jesus, it was like he was wearing a sandwich board that said “I got boned up the ass last night” across the front while the back read “By Dean Winchester” with an arrow pointing down. He just—he was not leaving this motel room today. At all. So Dean had insisted he stay here while he’d go and dig up something to eat.

They were in New England, and on the fringes of Boston to boot, so Dean had figured the Italian should be good up here. He’d hit a place that was a bit ritzier than they were used to, but hey, he wasn’t buying. Thank you, Mr. Throckmorton. He hardly ever did it anyway, so he had no reason to feel bad about going so expensive on a meal at all. He’d gotten himself a big mess of spaghetti and had picked the first thing on the menu he’d found with rosemary in it for Cas, along with a double order of breadsticks and, because he could, cannoli. He resisted the urge to make a _Godfather_ joke and had just brought the food back to the motel, where Cas had been waiting.

Dean had scowled when he saw he was up and about, but maybe it was okay. He’d put some jeans on and had cleared the table for lunch, and Dean couldn’t help but notice that he was walking a lot closer to normally now. Good. Still wasn’t leaving the room until tomorrow morning, though.

Cas had been positively gleeful at his choice of food, because Cas was an idiot and the littlest things blissed him out to ridiculous extremes (not that you could really tell—for Cas, “blissful” really just meant that he looked more intense than usual). He’d shoveled in his rosemary and garlic chicken like he hadn’t eaten in three days and had finished off his cannoli faster than Dean did. Then, of course, he’d gone over to brush his teeth, and because Dean knew better than to let garlic sit in his mouth for a while, he’d done the same.

He’d been content and full and ready to maybe take a nap or something when that son of a bitch did it again.

Totally wasn’t coy and innocent that time. Dean been sitting in his chair, swirling the dregs of his beer around in his bottle, when Cas suddenly got up from across from him. Dean had thought he was gonna try and clean up, and he was definitely gonna put a stop to that, but no, instead Cas just marched right over and climbed on top of him and started trying to make out with him, his tongue in his ear and one knee sliding right up in his damned crotch because Dean was too stunned to stop him.

“Cas!” Dean had barked, pushing him backwards and standing up rapidly. He’d scowled at the petulant sulk he got in return. “Get back in the bed.”

“I don’t need to be in the bed,” Cas had replied snippily.

Dean had ground his teeth. “I’ll sit with you, just—dammit, Cas, go lie back down, would you?”

He’d slouched back to bed while Dean had cleaned up, and just as he’d said he would, Dean crawled in bed next to him when he was done. And sure as shooting, an hour later _he did it again_ , trying to nuzzle up against his neck and lean closer and Dean had considered pushing him off the bed to get him to stop that crap, but had instead just scooted all the way to the very edge of the bed and stuffed a pillow between them.

Cas had been in an _epic_ sulk after that one, and he’d gotten revenge by insisting that _no_ , he _wanted_ to watch the show where they were removing barnacles from a buoy with a jackhammer, so Dean could not have the remote to change the channel. Dean almost fought him for it, because he was seriously about to puke—that shit was _nasty_ —but he held out and just crossed his arms tightly across his chest and scowled at the wall so he wouldn’t have to look at the TV.

And that was precisely why they were where they were right now. After sitting there stewing next to Cas, and Cas all cranky and assuming that just because they were in a motel meant it was time to get their freak on, he’d been glad when Cas had announced he was going to take a shower. Cas loved to shower _a lot_ when he was in a place where the hot water didn’t run out after about fifteen minutes and there was nobody to yell at him for wasting so much, so Dean told him fine, go do that, so long as he wasn’t sitting next to him in bed anymore trying to start shit with him or making him watch nasty-ass TV shows about _barnacles_.

Douchebag.

Dean jerked his head sharply to the side when he heard the bathroom door open. A cloud of steam emerged, the shower still running, and there was Cas, all naked and standing in the doorway dripping water everywhere with soap suds still in his hair.

“Dean?” he called, all coy and soft and _inviting_.

Dean glowered at the punk. “What the hell are you doing?” he growled. “You’re dripping water everywhere. Get back in there.”

Cas didn’t move. Instead, pushed the door open wider and tilted his head a little, licking his lips, his eyes big and shiny, his skin slick and wet, and there was a trail of soap oozing slowly down his stomach—

“ _Dammit_ ,” Dean muttered, and jerkily turned off the TV. He was on his feet in a second, glad he’d kicked out of his shoes earlier, and was already pulling his shirt over his head as he crossed the room in three quick strides.

_Oh, well. Back to the salt mines._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! Yeah—this was originally written as just one fic, but it was a stylistic choice on our parts to cut in two where we did: We wanted our readers to have built up all their unrealistic expectations only to be as unfulfilled and disappointed as the boys were! However…we weren’t expecting everyone to be quite as… _excited_ as you all were to see them actually do the deed. We hope that you aren’t too upset with us for fading to black, but honestly, the scene would have been painful to write, and we thought the story worked better this way—because it’s not about sex, it’s about Dean dealing with his internalized homophobia. But, given that you were all so looking forward to it, we just wanted to reassure you that we do in fact have some more fics for this universe, and never fear: Dean gets over himself, and you get to see it.
> 
> To see just how unrealistic Cas's expectations were, go check out our GTBT aside "[Reality Check](http://archiveofourown.org/works/956334/chapters/2046313)." Dean didn't want to hear what he was thinking, but Bobby didn't really have a choice.


End file.
